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The Gift A Dream Ride: - Updates and other information
Note:Before I start writing my trip logs, I wanted to share this small, short story which I wrote as a prologue to this ride
I hope you guys like it!
It was a day in February 1610, and a solitary horseman rode towards Delhi on the newly constructed Grand Trunk road, which he knew as Sadak-e-Azam. He had been riding for the past few weeks now, and his limbs ached after being in the saddle of his horse for many long hours on that particular day. Mughalsarai was only a few kos away, and he wanted to make it there before sundown. But he was tired and thirsty, and so was his horse. The traveler soon stopped at a small caravansarai, the highway inns constructed by the Pashtun emperor Sher Shah Suri. He saw a trough of water and a bundle of hay, so he led his horse there and tied it to a post nearby. He then went and sat on a smooth rock nearby, stretching his limbs and sucking in the fresh air.
His thoughts went back to that evening last month, when he told his friends he was going on a horse ride from his home Sonargaon in Bengal to the great plains of Punjab.
'You must be mad! ', one of his friends exclaimed. ‘Yes’, said another. ‘We must find him a nice and homely woman for him to marry and settle down.’ The young traveler did not reply. He long had this urge to get out and travel far and wide on his horse. At first, it was just a passing thought, but over the months it grew and grew inside him like uncontrollable hunger, till he could bear it no more. So one day, just like that, he packed his supplies over the night, got on his horse at dawn and left. But here he was today, miles away from home with just him and his horse. He hummed a happy song, his voice only disturbed by the occasional clatter of bullock cart wheels on the freshly laid cobblestones.
He looked at the afternoon sun, and knew that it would be only a few hours before darkness fell. He decided that he had rested enough, and must continue riding. Before leaving, he walked a few paces to the newly constructed Kos Minar, edifices along the length of highway which served as milestones to travelers. ‘What a clever Emperor’, thought the traveler. ‘Without these milestones, traveler would never know how far or near they are from their destination’. After spending a few minutes admiring the structure, he started walking back to his horse. It was then he saw the sapling. It was of a bright green color, shooting through the fertile soil, inching up towards its brand new life. The traveler knew it to be fledging Banyan tree, and went back to the inn to get water in an earthen cup. ‘Drink well, young one,’ said the traveler as he watered the sapling. ‘One day, you will grow up to be a great Banyan tree, and many birds will make you their home. Your branches will spread far and wide and many travelers will enjoy your cool shade long after I am dead and gone’. The little sapling could not speak to thank the young man, so it mustered all its strength and let out a tiny breath, its young stem quivering. The young horseman smiled.
The horseman got back on his horse after thanking the innkeeper and handing him a copper sovereign. He looked at the deserted Great Trunk road disappearing into the horizon. ‘What a wide road. I wonder how much fun it would be to ride something which goes ten times faster than my horse.’ He immediately chided himself for thinking such impossible thoughts, and hurried his horse towards Mughal Sarai. He had to reach there before dusk.
A blaring truck horn jolted the young rider out of his reverie. It was early 2010, and the ancient cobbled pathway which the horseman once traveled on lay buried under several layers of soil and concrete. This traveler did not have a horse, but he was riding a machine which was much, much faster than a horse. He had been riding from Calcutta since morning, and wanted to reach Varanasi by sundown. But he was tired and thirsty and wanted to stop for a few minutes for a water and snack break. He saw a huge tree on the roadside ahead, so he soon pulled over to the right and parked his motorcycle in the shade of the tree.
Someone had constructed a cement bench beneath the huge Banyan tree, so the rider rested his tired body on it and drank water out of his plastic bottle. The cool water was soothing. He looked up at the tree, admiring its gigantic trunk and roots which spread all around the tree, opening up the earth in a sinewy, twisted kind of a way. ‘What a magnificent tree’, wondered the young rider. ‘I wonder how old this guy is. But it is incredible that something this big would have started its life as a tiny sapling.’
He saw a small sapling a few meters away from the bench, so he walked across and poured some water around it. The rider smiled as the young sapling eagerly lapped the water around it. He walked back towards his motorcycle, but he did not see the crumbling Kos Minar behind the tree. It lay neglected, surrounded by a small fence put around by the government. Most of the bars in the fences were gone, plundered by vandals looking to make some quick money. A small, rectangular rusty metal board with flaking paint had a brief description of the Kos Minar. But no one wanted to know what it was, or what it did. On the smooth four laned highways, the small embedded slabs of white, yellow and black told the travelers how far they had come and how near they were to the next city. No one cared about the Kos minar anymore. Yet many people stopped to rest beneath the giant tree, and a few people had tied holy threads around its trunk as a mark of respect and gratitude.
The young rider got back on his green motorcycle and switched the engine on, and all of thirty three horsepower came to life, growling angrily as the rider wringed the throttle with his right hand. ‘What a shame,’ he said aloud. ‘Only if this road was wider, I could have gone much faster.’ He quickly sped away towards Varanasi, trying to be there before sunset. He hated riding in the dark.
The great Banyan tree could not smile, so it rustled its leaves, startling the sparrows settled on its branches. The tree had overlooked the highway over last four hundred years and it knew that it did not have long to live. But the old, wise tree looked down at the freshly watered sapling and was at peace, knowing that one day it would grow up to be a fine, magnificent tree.
@others: Remember this is a donation ride, look here on how to donate:
Note:Before I start writing my trip logs, I wanted to share this small, short story which I wrote as a prologue to this ride
I hope you guys like it!It was a day in February 1610, and a solitary horseman rode towards Delhi on the newly constructed Grand Trunk road, which he knew as Sadak-e-Azam. He had been riding for the past few weeks now, and his limbs ached after being in the saddle of his horse for many long hours on that particular day. Mughalsarai was only a few kos away, and he wanted to make it there before sundown. But he was tired and thirsty, and so was his horse. The traveler soon stopped at a small caravansarai, the highway inns constructed by the Pashtun emperor Sher Shah Suri. He saw a trough of water and a bundle of hay, so he led his horse there and tied it to a post nearby. He then went and sat on a smooth rock nearby, stretching his limbs and sucking in the fresh air.
His thoughts went back to that evening last month, when he told his friends he was going on a horse ride from his home Sonargaon in Bengal to the great plains of Punjab.
'You must be mad! ', one of his friends exclaimed. ‘Yes’, said another. ‘We must find him a nice and homely woman for him to marry and settle down.’ The young traveler did not reply. He long had this urge to get out and travel far and wide on his horse. At first, it was just a passing thought, but over the months it grew and grew inside him like uncontrollable hunger, till he could bear it no more. So one day, just like that, he packed his supplies over the night, got on his horse at dawn and left. But here he was today, miles away from home with just him and his horse. He hummed a happy song, his voice only disturbed by the occasional clatter of bullock cart wheels on the freshly laid cobblestones.
He looked at the afternoon sun, and knew that it would be only a few hours before darkness fell. He decided that he had rested enough, and must continue riding. Before leaving, he walked a few paces to the newly constructed Kos Minar, edifices along the length of highway which served as milestones to travelers. ‘What a clever Emperor’, thought the traveler. ‘Without these milestones, traveler would never know how far or near they are from their destination’. After spending a few minutes admiring the structure, he started walking back to his horse. It was then he saw the sapling. It was of a bright green color, shooting through the fertile soil, inching up towards its brand new life. The traveler knew it to be fledging Banyan tree, and went back to the inn to get water in an earthen cup. ‘Drink well, young one,’ said the traveler as he watered the sapling. ‘One day, you will grow up to be a great Banyan tree, and many birds will make you their home. Your branches will spread far and wide and many travelers will enjoy your cool shade long after I am dead and gone’. The little sapling could not speak to thank the young man, so it mustered all its strength and let out a tiny breath, its young stem quivering. The young horseman smiled.
The horseman got back on his horse after thanking the innkeeper and handing him a copper sovereign. He looked at the deserted Great Trunk road disappearing into the horizon. ‘What a wide road. I wonder how much fun it would be to ride something which goes ten times faster than my horse.’ He immediately chided himself for thinking such impossible thoughts, and hurried his horse towards Mughal Sarai. He had to reach there before dusk.
A blaring truck horn jolted the young rider out of his reverie. It was early 2010, and the ancient cobbled pathway which the horseman once traveled on lay buried under several layers of soil and concrete. This traveler did not have a horse, but he was riding a machine which was much, much faster than a horse. He had been riding from Calcutta since morning, and wanted to reach Varanasi by sundown. But he was tired and thirsty and wanted to stop for a few minutes for a water and snack break. He saw a huge tree on the roadside ahead, so he soon pulled over to the right and parked his motorcycle in the shade of the tree.
Someone had constructed a cement bench beneath the huge Banyan tree, so the rider rested his tired body on it and drank water out of his plastic bottle. The cool water was soothing. He looked up at the tree, admiring its gigantic trunk and roots which spread all around the tree, opening up the earth in a sinewy, twisted kind of a way. ‘What a magnificent tree’, wondered the young rider. ‘I wonder how old this guy is. But it is incredible that something this big would have started its life as a tiny sapling.’
He saw a small sapling a few meters away from the bench, so he walked across and poured some water around it. The rider smiled as the young sapling eagerly lapped the water around it. He walked back towards his motorcycle, but he did not see the crumbling Kos Minar behind the tree. It lay neglected, surrounded by a small fence put around by the government. Most of the bars in the fences were gone, plundered by vandals looking to make some quick money. A small, rectangular rusty metal board with flaking paint had a brief description of the Kos Minar. But no one wanted to know what it was, or what it did. On the smooth four laned highways, the small embedded slabs of white, yellow and black told the travelers how far they had come and how near they were to the next city. No one cared about the Kos minar anymore. Yet many people stopped to rest beneath the giant tree, and a few people had tied holy threads around its trunk as a mark of respect and gratitude.
The young rider got back on his green motorcycle and switched the engine on, and all of thirty three horsepower came to life, growling angrily as the rider wringed the throttle with his right hand. ‘What a shame,’ he said aloud. ‘Only if this road was wider, I could have gone much faster.’ He quickly sped away towards Varanasi, trying to be there before sunset. He hated riding in the dark.
The great Banyan tree could not smile, so it rustled its leaves, startling the sparrows settled on its branches. The tree had overlooked the highway over last four hundred years and it knew that it did not have long to live. But the old, wise tree looked down at the freshly watered sapling and was at peace, knowing that one day it would grow up to be a fine, magnificent tree.
@others: Remember this is a donation ride, look here on how to donate:
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